Betting Pool
by Eleckticity
Summary: Sirius Black: 'He's been after her for 6 years. James' stubborn. Pathetically, horribly stubborn. Might as well make some money of of them, eh? Bets, Marauders? 10 galleons on Lily' [JL, but focuses on Marauders]
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_ On Parchment secreted in the only place James Potter will not look: Down Sirius Black's trousers. _

Insufferable prat—10 galleons, Sirius Black

Egotistical git—10 galleons, Remus Lupin

Arrogant, attention-seeking toerag—10 galleons, Peter Pettigrew

We, the undersigned, do swear an oath of secrecy for the protection of life and limb. Should any of us three foreswear himself, he shalt be hung from his toe from yonder Astronomy Tower in female underwear.

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Furtive conversation during 6th year Transfiguration_

"Do you really have to keep it there?"

"There?"

"In your pants."

"Keep what…there?"

"You know…it."

"Where else would it keep" (evil smirk) "it?"

"I dunno…somewhere else…here, give it to me."

"Moony, baby," (looks very disturbed, and moves away from Remus) "My broomstick doesn't swing that way, if you know what I mean. Haven't got any recently?"

"What? No! The parchment, you idiot!"

"So, is that what they're calling it these days?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Quite frankly, Minnie, I don't see the problem," Sirius said. "Are you sure you're not imagining things?" He pulled up a chair to her desk, and, after apparently deciding it was uncomfortable, conjured a poufy armchair.

McGonagall stared.

HE put his feet up on her desk, trapping her third year essays under his boots.

McGonagall huffed angrily, trying to pull the essays out from under those ungodly boots. And HE, the stuff of her nightmares, an incorrigible prankster (though an undeniably gifted transfiguration student), flashed her a bright smile and shifted _just so,_ splattering the papers with mud. Breathe…deep breaths. One…two…it was an accident…three…four…five… accident….six…accident. "ARRGGG!" She seized the papers from under his feet, ripping Audrey Reach's essay entitled, "The Difficulties and Dangers Faced by Wizards Attempting Animagus Transformations," in half.

With the air of someone who is just an innocent bystander, Sirius nonchalantly pulled the essay from her hand and said, scanning the paper, "He really has no idea what he's doing, does he?" Taking her quill, he scribbled across the parchment in red ink. "I think he deserves a D. Or maybe a P. What do you think, Minnie?" McGonagall turned red with anger and then white with rage, finally settling for a shade of rather unflattering pink. "Whoa, that's an interesting color, Minnie. I've never—"

"Give me that!" Seething, McGonagall ripped Audrey's abused paper away, threw it out the window, and set the whole pile of essays on fire. As the three-foot long essays disintegrated into ash (she had fireproofed her desk five years ago when a first-year Sirius Black "accidentally" blew out all the windows and the set the curtains on fire), McGonagall said very calmly, "We have two problems."

"Do we?"

"Yes. Firstly, you have–" She was interrupted by the sounds of Sirius rummaging though her desk. After extracting a tin of cookies, he turned and looked at her expectantly.

She stared back.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"Yes, what?"

"I have…"

"You have what!"

"I don't know."

"You don't know."

"No."

"Don't know what?"

"How am I supposed to know? That's what I don't know. You know."

"I know WHAT, Mr. Black?"

"I know that you know what I don't know because you were going to tell me what I have that I don't know I have. But I don't know how I would have something without knowing that I have it. Perhaps you know?"

Silence.

Sirius tried again.

"There are known knowns, that is to say, knowns that we know we know. There are known unknowns, unknowns that we know we don't know. There are also unknown unknowns, which are unknowns that we don't know that we didn't know about. This is one of those."

McGonagall started mumbling, "We know…that he knows…the unknown knowns that know we…don't know," stopping abruptly when she realized she was trying to wade through Sirius Black Logic. He had one of those absolutely brilliant minds—like a steel trap—except his was rusted over and quite probably defecated on by a rabid bear. He and that James Potter: so sneakily brilliant. Come to think of it, McGonagall doubted that James and Sirius could be so devious. They were much more spontaneous, unlike…Remus Lupin. Frowning, McGonagall realized that she rather suspected that James and Sirius were just figureheads and the Marauder's ringleader was actually Remus Lupin. Who better to lead a notorious gang of pranksters than a prefect who has been cleverly hiding a dark secret for all his life? He always had his nose stuck in a book, hidden away in the library. Such a studious teenager was unnatural. There could only be one explanation: Remus Lupin, not Potter or Black, was the secret architect of all those pranks. Well, not anymore! She would put an end to Remus Lupin's reign.

McGonagall began cackling under her breath. "Yes, yes, I'll get him, I will. Sneaky, little bastard. Mwa ha, ha, ha!" she snickered under her breath. Sirius Black coughed slightly, bringing her back to the present. Reminding herself that revenge is a dish best served cold, she said, "You HAVE a problem respecting authority."

"Is that all?"

She gritted her teeth. Soon, she promised herself.

"Secondly, you—"

"Hi, Mr. Green monster. Can I play too?" Sirius said in a high pitch voice. He had a biscuit—apparently snitched from her cookie tin—in each hand held up to the window which cast shadows on the wall. Shadows that Sirius Black was playing with. "No! I'm the Evil Green Monster that Eats You If You're Bad, not the Ugly But Friendly Green Monster Who Plays with You When You're Sickeningly Sweet." The cookie in his right hand marched forwards menacingly. "Have you been naughty or nice, little girl?" The left-hand biscuit screamed (McGonagall didn't know it was possible for a teenage boy to reach that high of a pitch except in extreme circumstances) and ran away. The monster followed.

And McGonagall was watching completely entranced.

That is, until she lunged forward, bit the cookies' heads off, and chucked their decapitated carcasses out the window. "As I was saying, secondly, you grabbed your—"

"NOOOOOOO! You-you killed them! You, you cookie killer!"

"What are you talking about Mr. Black? It's a cookie. Coooookie." She adopted a tone used when pacifying small children when they lose their pet rocks.

"Her. Name. Was. Gwinny!"

Silence.

More silence.

"Mr. Black…you…named your cookie?"

"She's not just a cookie! She has feelings too! And you interrupted my show! That's rude you know."

McGonagall carefully folded her hands on her desk. Sometimes you get these…students…who got a little overly stressed by family or school and lashed out in peculiar ways. She didn't expect Sirius Black of all people to crack though, much less funnel his stress into…shadow puppetry and emotional attachment to a cookie. Perhaps this was some sort of diversionary tactic. McGonagall quickly dismissed _that_ idea. No one was that good of an actor.

"Mr. Black," she said very slowly, "Gwinny is a cookie. They are _meant_ to be eaten."

"No! Justice will be served!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Excerpt from a detention essay entitled, "Things I, Sirius Black, Marauder, Prankster Extraordinaire, Quidditch Hero, and Sex God, am No Longer Allowed to Do."_

And so, Dumblydor, even though you are secretly disappointed that this isn't a letter from Minnie suggesting you go take a bath together, in your hands you have the second best thing: a dashing account of my exploits, cleverly disguised as a detention essay and thus written in the negative.

1. I will never, ever grab my crotch during class and scream, "No, you can't have it!"

2. My best friend is not trying to molest me, nor is "parchment" some sort of innuendo (though we both know better).

3. Teachers are to be addressed as "Professor" or "Ma'am" or "Sir," not clever nicknames like "Minnie" or "Dumblydore" that I come up with during class.

4. If it makes me giggle, the answer is no.

5. Biscuits are food, not shadow puppets. They are meant to be eaten.

6. Throwing chairs and magicking sock puppets to follow my teacher around squeaking, "Viva la revolucion!" is n ever a proper response.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Meanwhile, in Gryffindor common room_

"Did you get the food, Peter?" Remus said, as he strategically arranged several armchairs in a discreet part of the Common Room. He sat down for a moment, and sighed. No, this spot wouldn't do. They needed a clear view of the entire room.

"Popcorn, chocolate, and jelly donuts."

"Peter, I said no donuts. Move. No, not you, you idiot, them." Remus gestured towards a gaggle of giggling girls, shooting them an evil glare. "I claim this corner for the Marauders!" One of the girls giggled behind her hand and leaned over to whisper something to her two mindless bimbo friends.

"I think (giggle) you need a (giggle, giggle) a flag to do (giggle) that," the blonde one said. Remus and Peter stared at her with open mouths, displaying, in Peter's case, some impressive purple donut guts. Brainless Bimbo turned to whisper something to her friends, Lack-Wit and Idiotgirl, before turning back to them. "To, you know, (giggle) claim a territory (giggle)."

Peter ate another donut. He leaned over to Remus and whispered, "I'm scared."

"Me too," Remus muttered. "Where's Sirius when you need him?" A sixth year entered the Common Room, quickly scrambling over to the Dimwit Convention. The four girls put their heads together (the term, "heads," used in the loosest way possible: empty buckets with hair would be a more apt description) obviously conferring. Remus and Peter, standing to stunned silence, overheard the words "pervert" and "parchment" and "during class too."

"OY! You stupid berks!" screamed Remus. "I was just trying to get a piece of parchment from Sirius during Transfiguration which he stuffed down his trousers in order to keep it secret because we all thought that James shouldn't know about it and so Sirius should keep it and he thought I was trying to take it away from him and, oh God, that was a run-on sentence."

Peter patted his shoulder and said, "It's all right, Moony, we all make mistakes."

"Thank you, Peter," Remus said.

"You were weak this one time," Peter continued, "but you'll do better next time."

"Thanks."

"And besides," Peter said, "I don't think that Sirius really minded that you were coming on to him."

"Tha—what?"

"Well, you know, Moony, Sirius was getting a little worried you weren't getting any action." Peter learned over confidentially, "You can practice on us anytime you want." (The girls watched in horrified delight. Lack-Wit had taken out a notebook and was taking notes.)

"I can—I can what anytime! Don't be ridiculous!"

Peter said, "Well, I suppose you're right. It's a bit ridiculous—"

"Thank Merlin!" sighed Remus in relief.

"—to practice at anytime. Why don't we limit ourselves to after class or to during History of Magic? Less detentions that way."

"NO! You don't understand," Remus said, panicked. "It's really about the…you know…that James isn't supposed to know about."

"The what I'm not supposed to know about?" James asked, as he entered the Common Room. "You know, everyone is talking about you and Sirius. What exactly is going on?" James helped himself to some popcorn. "And what exactly are these round squishy things? Oops! Purple stuff on carpet!"

"They're donuts," Peter said, helpfully.

"Nuts? As in walnuts?" asked James. "I thought those were kinda hard." (Remus gibbered in the background, trying to discreetly shoo out the gawking girls while getting rid of James in anticipation of the show. Peter, apparently, was rather unaware of his efforts in the face of genuine interest in his current Muggle food obsession.)

"They're a Muggle sweet," Peter said. (Using his Prefect privileges, Remus confiscated Lack-Wit's notes as "evidence.")

"Oh. Why do they have holes in them?" James said. (Giving up reasoning with the girls as a futile exercise in pointlessness, Remus, casting a glance around the room, took out his wand and Banished the girls to the Astronomy Tower.)

Peter said, "It's more fun that way, you see, in 1634 when they were first—"

"Oh, look, James!" Remus interrupted. "There's Lily over there. Look, that seventh year bloke is talking to her."

"What!" James stormed off, while Peter extracted a worn (and jelly covered) piece of parchment.

"So, that would be Potential Lily Boyfriend Number 12, right, Moony?

"Quite right, Mr. Wormtail. Popcorn?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Oy, Evans!"

"Sod off, Potter!" Lily stormed towards the window, peering through the darkness below.

"Go out with me?" asked James. He struck a pose. Potters never begged.

"…"

"Please?" Most of the time.

"…"

"Will you?" Except in extreme circumstances.

"You just turned Shacklebolt into a chicken and then chucked him out the window, and now you expect me to go out with you?" screamed Lily. Merlin, she was gorgeous when she was mad. When she stomped her little foot. Into his solar plexus. So cute.

James was puzzled. Lily could be awfully sneaky when she wanted to be. Why was she so concerned over Shacklebolt? James said, "Is this a trick question or something? It's not like he's going to be hurt. He's a chicken."

"We're in a tower, you wanker! 150 feet off the ground!"

"So? He's a bird. A chicken. Chicken. Bird. Chicken. Bird. He has wings." James flapped his arms helpfully. _See_, he thought, _I can be clever too_.

"Chickens CAN'T FLY!"

"Oh." _Oops._ "Go out with me?"

"You…you…insufferable prat!"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gringotts Transaction Slip

10 galleons were transferred from vaults 315 (Remus Lupin) and 872 (Peter Pettigrew) to vault 295 (Sirius Black) at 11:36 p.m. on Oct. 25, 1971.


	2. Revenge is Sweet

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed. It means a lot to me and totally makes my day. Special thanks to Dumbledoresgirl1, my first review ever and the first person to add "Betting Pool" to their favorites list. In other news, right after I posted chapter 1, I realized I had forgetten a few things but was too lazy to actually edit the chapter. Thus, here they are. My beta for this story is my sister who has yet to come up with a clever pen name. This is obviously not JK Rowling's work and Harry Potter belongs to her. If you thought otherwise, you probably should not be using technology such as the Internet. This story will span all of 6th year and end with James and Lily becoming a couple. I will try to stay mostly canon, but this is fanfiction so there will be some OOC-nesh. Otherwise, thanks for reading! -Elecki_

**

* * *

****Chapter 2: Revenge is Sweet**

_Scribbled hastily on crumpled parchment paper that has been ripped apart, clumsily spello-taped back together, dashed with interestingly slimy purple splotches and currently concealed, after much argument, under the insole of Remus Lupin's shoe._

She walks out: 20 galleons, Sirius Black **because my brilliant strategizing has won me 30 galleons while you wankers who wouldn't know how**—(remaining writing scribbled off in heavy black ink); 20 galleons, Peter Pettigrew

He walks out: 20 galleons, Remus Lupin

* * *

_Incident Report #567 filed by Minerva McGonagall_

The following incident occurred Oct 25, 1971 during 6th Year Transfiguration

3:30 p.m. Class begins promptly. Commence lesson on self-transfiguration

4:00 Begin practical exercises. Students asked transfigure nose until carrot-shaped.

4:04 Severus Snape accidentally turns entire head into pig's head, vanishes chair, and loses wand.

4:05 Student (suspect James Potter) transfigures Snape's desk into pigsty with swill bucket.

4:06: Snape falls headfirst into swill bucket and eats moldy apple.

4:07 Sirius Black takes photograph of Snape. Pandemonium ensues among students.

4:10 Cast freezing charm on most of students.

4:11 Force students to return to seats after releasing charm.

4:13 Attempt to restore Snape's head.

4:15 Unsuccessful. On plus side, reverted pigsty to normal desk.

4:21 Snape's head restored and class orderly again.

4:22 Students begin supervised practice.

4:25 Pay Black 10 galleons for photo

4:27 Decide class too lacking in neurons and cerebral power to continue practice. Begin new, in-depth lecture.

4:40 Lecture proceeding uninterrupted until whispering breaks out between Black and Remus Lupin. Twenty minutes of class remains.

4:43 Lupin looks concerned.

4:44 Lupin yells about piece of parchment. Innuendo of some sort?

4:46 Lupin appears unconvinced of Black's explanation. Class neglected. Continue lecture.

4:48 Lupin suddenly lunges forward towards Black's crotch. Lupin ignores disciplinary reprimand. Chaos resumes. Move forward to separate wrestling students.

4:49 Black faster than expected. Avoids Lupin's hands, stands on desk, clutches crotch and yells, "No, you can't have it. It's mine! Mine, I say!"

4:51 Class shocked. Blond girl snaps photo. Buy her photo for 15 galleons.

4:52 Black seizes chair. Wards off Lupin's advances with chair-leg jabs.

4:53 Dismiss class seven minutes early. Hold Black after class.

* * *

McGonagall looked over her report as she sipped a goblet of coffee. Her eggs had long gone cold while her sausages squirmed in a glistening pool of congealed oil. Her butter knife appeared to have eloped with Sprout's fork, and her napkin was having a sordid affair with Hogwart's floor, but that wasn't what was worrying her. _Damn Albus and his Truth Quills_, McGonagall thought, frowning at the report. It made it impossible to hide her actions during…The Incident. On the plus side, she was involved in a lucrative auction, selling off the photographs to the highest bidder (Lily Evans: 50 galleons). Still occupied by her parchment, McGonagall's teaspoon missed the sugar pot and ladled several tablespoons of strawberry jam into her coffee. 

"Er…Minerva…you just—" began Sprout.

"Quiet!" McGonagall said. "Can't you see I'm working?" Sprout huffed angrily and replaced the butter with some plant fertilizer she stashed under her chair. Rather pleased with herself, Sprout watched as McGonagall distractedly buttered her crescent with mud. _Two can play this game_, she thought.

Unaware of the snickering witch next to her, McGonagall continued to ponder the report, occasionally looking up to shoot Death Glares at Remus Lupin. Who, incidentally, figured rather importantly on her report. What was he playing at? "Parchment" seemed to be a code word of some sort, or why would Black become so defensive about it? Mere innuendo would not cause such a reaction. Maybe it was a booby trap. "Yes, that's it," she muttered continually to herself. "The whole incident yesterday was a ploy. A very clever ploy to distract me from the Real Plan. Yes. The Real Plan." Well, they wouldn't get THIS one past her. Oh, no. She was onto them. She would destroy their plan like a rhino squishes an egg!

She shot I-am-Pissed-Off-So-Fear-Me Glares at the Marauders. They were engaged in some sort of debate…over their…eggs. Sirius Black had…something growing out his armpit and was using his fork to draw complicated looking diagrams in the air while pointing at James Potter's eggs. Potter stared slack jaw at him, while HE, Remus Lupin, read a book. "Yes," she hissed, "reading a book while undoubtedly plotting some nefarious scheme. Not for long, Mr. Lupin. Your time is up! Ha, ha, ha!" Project Get That Bookish Bastard Back is underway! _Wait_, she thought, _I need a better name. Something cunning, simply and elegant, yet chilling and foreboding. A name that no one would guess. Operation…Splat. Yes_! Commence Operation Splat immediately! "MWA HA, HA, HA, H-oops." McGonagall's eyes darted around, taking in her coworkers' stares. "Heh, heh…facial spasms. You know how it is…heh, heh. Er."

Flitwick edged towards Dumbledore and whispered, "Has Minerva been acting…a bit odd lately? Did you notice how her eyes were bulging out a few minutes ago?"

"Oh, really?" Dumbledore asked. "I hadn't really noticed."

Madam Pomfrey joined them, saying, "Well, you must have noticed how her left eye started twitching. Look, there it goes again! It seems to have spread to her right arm."

"I'm sure it's nothing important. Just stress," Dumbledore said complacently.

* * *

"Where's Sirius?" asked James as he helped himself to a generous serving of eggs, bacon and toast. Especially the eggs. He loved eggs. "You know, they really should make these plates bigger. No more of this going back for seconds business." 

"Indeed. Why not just get it all the first round?" asked Remus dryly, taking the waffles away from Peter who tended to make little houses out of them and then get defensive when he couldn't bring them to class. "As for your other question, I have no idea. Although I did tell him last night that there's pornographic images in my encyclopedia."

"What, that 10,000 page monstrosity under your bed?"

"It should keep him occupied for a while," Remus said, pleased with himself.

"You wanker," James said, shaking his head. Peter, noticing that the waffles had been hidden and the eggs were corralled on James' plate, settled for constructing a log cabin out of sausages. James lifted a forkful of eggs to his mouth when suddenly a…heavy thing knocked it out of his hand and onto the floor.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" yelled James at the fleshy blob. It—James realized it was humanoid shaped with two chicken feet growing out of its armpit and a feathered shoulder.

"I," it said, "have saved you from a horrible fate, young wizard."

"What! You git, that was my breakfast!" James said. Meanwhile, Remus was staring at the creature in horror. He took off his glasses, cleaned them on the back of Peter's shirt, and put them back on.

"Sirius?" he asked in a hesitant whisper.

"Yes! It is I!" said Sirius. James gaped angrily at him.

"My eggs! You dumped them on the floor!" yelled James.

Remus frowned again. "Is that a chicken?"

"It might be," hedged Sirius.

"What am I going to eat now? No more eggs!"

"Yes, it is! Put it down, Sirius! Your armpit is probably suffocating it," Remus said. "Wait…is that—no, you wouldn't. Yes. You would. No. Yes. Shit. Is that Shacklebolt?"

"It might be…"

"—and now what's there left? Hmm? Leftover toast?"

"Why? Sirius, WHY?" asked Remus, rubbing his temples. "He should be in the Hospital Wing recovering from James' hex."

"Because, I, Sirius Orion Black, have discovered a foul plot afoot!"

"Oh, Merlin," Remus said.

"You know I always eat eggs—"

"I was reading you dictionary and—" Sirius began.

"READING? HAR, HAR! You were touching my books! Reading! Har, har!" Remus said a bit hysterically.

"And I learned something about eggs! A secret conspiracy!" Sirius announced.

"What?" Remus looked up. "Eggs?"

"Eggs, I eat them every morning, Sirius. You live with me! Why don't you know these things?"

"Yes, Remus!" Sirius turned to James and thrust Shacklebolt, who he was holding by the neck, towards him. "You're eating his children!"

Silence.

"I am not! They're eggs. They come from…the kitchen!" yelled James defiantly.

"Oh, do they?" Sirius asked. "And where does the kitchen get them? Hmm?"

"From the store. Er," James said, staring horrified at Shacklebolt the Chicken. Remus sighed yet again. _This_ is what he got for trying to get rid of that prat for just one measly hour.

"And where does the store get them?" asked Sirius, continuing his inquisition. "Moony, why are you banging your head on the table? Wait!"

"Oh Merlin and all that is magical," Remus begged.

"Mr. Padfoot is of the opinion that Mr. Moony does not know the origins of eggs."

"Eggs. Are. From. Chickens," Remus stated firmly. James started gagging, gasping for air and clutching his fork like a drowning man clutches to a decomposing piece of driftwood in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. He appeared to be undergoing some sort of horrifying life revelation.

"Ver good, Mr. Moony. Mr. Padfoot inquires if Mr. Moony is aware of which part of a chicken eggs come from."

"Shacklebolt—eggs…breakfast…eggs…"

"Very good, Mr. Prongs. Acceptance is the first step to healing. Well, Mr. Moony?" Padfoot said.

"Well—I, well. Er. Eggs are…er…laid by chickens…from…it's not something you talk about while people are eating," Remus said.

"Eggs. Shacklebolt. Eggs. Shacklebolt."

"They don't lay eggs, Moony!"

"Breakfast. Little Shacklebolt eggs! Shacklebolt kiddies!"

"Chickens POOP eggs!" announced Sirius triumphantly.

"BLEEEEERGG!"

"That's disgusting, James. What are you talking about, Sirius? Chickens—"

"Don't have vaginas!"

"What!"

"BLEERRRRGG!"

"It's amazing what you can learn from books, Moony. Eggs anyone?"

* * *

"And so I call him a giant prat, and his little fan club breaks into giggles. Honestly, they're sixteen, why—" 

"Don't they act their age? They're arrogant berks with no sense of propriety, and, if life were fair, they would get their heads stuck in the toilet and drown. We know, Lily, we know," said Alice Longbottom, rather irritated.

"Actually, I was thinking of something a little more splashy," Lily said. "Like death by explosives. Or guillotine. Or by hanging off the Astronomy Tower, their bones left hanging as a dire warning to all pranksters."

"That's a bit…harsh, don't you think?"

Lily continued without pause. "Of course, there's the good, ol' razor. Leaves nicely morbid blood murals on the malls. Though, I don't any of them _has_ a razor."

"Er…why not?"

"Too immature to need to shave. Maybe I'll leave mine in Potter's bed. Hopefully he'll get the hint."

"Uh, Lily, sorry to break it to you," Alice said, "but he's more likely to built a shrine to worship the Holy Lily Razor."

"I suppose you're right," Lily conceded. "Oh well." They walked on in companionable silence for a few minutes. "Oh, wait, Alice, before we go to breakfast, can we go check on Kingsley? I feel kinda guilty." She abruptly changed directions towards the Hospital Wing.

"Oh, sure, no problem. Thanks for waiting," muttered Alice. "Visiting a transfigured chicken man. Spiffing. Just absolutely spiffing." Lily pushed open the heavy wooden doors leading to the Hospital Wing, discovering, to her surprise, that Shacklebolt already had not only one visitor, but four, all of whom were clustered around his frantically clucking self. She heard a few snatches of conversation: "There? Out there?" and "See the hole?" and "Eggs?" _Wait a minute_. Alice noticed the gleam in Lily's eye and scanned the wing for cover.

"POTTER! What do you think you're doing?" Lily shrieked.

A guilty looking James looked about, still holding Shacklebolt the Chicken upside down by his feet. He flinched visibly when he saw Lily. "Er…inspecting for…nits?" Lily looked dubiously at the mishandled poultry, becoming increasingly enraged. Peter, meanwhile, joined Alice under one of the beds, holding a bedpan in front of him for extra protection.

"Potter, you—"

Sirius cut her off, smiling and whispered dramatically, "He's looking at little Kingsley's anus." Remus froze, briefly considering standing up for James. He glanced at Lily's rabid expression and decided Gryffindor bravery could go bugger itself: He joined Peter and Alice under the bed, hastily bringing along any pointy objects within Lily's reach.

"Padfoot!"

"POTTER!"

"See, I got her to scream your name, Prongsie."

"PADFOOT!" Still grinning, Sirius ducked out of the Hospital Wing, leaving Lily and James to duke it out.

"Er…well you see, Evans, I was, er," James began.

"We're sixteen, Potter. In a year, we'll be adults. We'll be able to Apparate. Get a job. Drink alcohol."

James looked a little guilty at that one.

"Well, drink alcohol legally, anyway," Lily said. "When are you going to grow up, Potter? There's a war going on. People are dying out there. You can't be a kid forever." They stared at each other in silence, except for the periodic sounds of Shacklebolt clucking, looking for something to eat. Remus, Peter, and Alice peered suspiciously at them from their hidey-hole that had been renovated into a fully equipped fortress. Despite Peter's squeaked protests, Remus and Alice had confiscated his sausage log cabin as victuals for the long siege. Alice had a camera out. Except…it didn't look like they landed front row seats in a public brawl. Quite the opposite, actually.

"Evans, I'm sor—" James began but was interrupted by Sirius barging in at the most inopportune moment.

"Never worry, Shacklebolt! I saved your children!" yelled Sirius, jubilantly levitating several dozen hard-boiled eggs. "Those crazy berks done in the Great Hall were going to eat your babies!" While James and Lily gaped, Sirius gently settled the eggs down on a pillow, yanked Shacklebolt from James by the neck, and plopped him on top.

"Sirius, you…you…I…Sirius," Lily gasped, unable to form an entire sentence. Less shocked and more embarrassed, James crumpled down into a little ball on the floor and rocked back in forth, reciting the Marauder's Creed to himself repeatedly.

Meanwhile, Sirius was busy fluffing the pillows and rearranging the eggs under Shacklebolt. He fiddled with a couple before extracting a smallish egg. He gawked perplexed at it, before turning his accusing eyes on Shacklebolt. "You—you arsehole, wait…arsehole! HAR, HAR, HAR! Wait, what was I saying?"

The two marauders and Alice froze near the door. Peter, Remus, and Alice had decided that staying in the hospital wing was unduly hazardous and unlikely to produce any decent blackmail. They had abandoned camp and were edging discreetly away. They soon realized, however, that Sirius was in fact addressing the smallish egg held in his hands. They made a break for it.

"Oh yah!" Sirius said. "Shacklebolt, you bugger, you let one out too early!" Sirius waved the Midget Egg in the chicken's face. "Your baby is going to die! It's too weak to survive in the real world! Kingsley, mate, you gotta hold them in, okay?"

Lily strode forward to slap Sirius across the head, leaving James curled up on the floor.

"Wait! I know! Here, don't move," Sirius said. He grabbed the Midget Egg in one hand and grabbed Shacklebolt by the foot with the other. With some careful examination, Sirius tried to shove the egg into Shacklebolt's feathered stomach without much success.

Lily slapped him.

"BLACK! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Lily screamed.

"Oh, hi Lily. Still here? I was—"

"Miss Evans! What do you think your doing screaming here? People are sick. They need peace and quiet!" Finally, after a conspicuous absence Madam Pomfrey arrived at the scene. (She had stayed late at breakfast to take notes on McGonagall's increasingly erratic behavior). "Quite frankly, Miss Evans, I expected better from a prefect."

"But, I was just—"

"I tried to get her to quiet down," Sirius said, "but you know how it is with girls. Yak, yak, yak all the time."

"Thank you, Mr. Black. At least one person here is acting his age," Madam Pomfrey said. "Now, all of you, out!"

"But I—"

"No buts, Miss Evans. This is a hospital ward. OUT! And Miss Evans, you will report to detention with me later this week. I will inform you of the details later." And with that, Madam Pomfrey all but manhandled them out and slammed the door in their faces.

Lily fumed at the 6-inch thick door before spotting Alice huddled in a corner. Grabbing her by the arm, Lily stormed down the hallway with a stumbling Alice in her wake.

"Lily, wait, what—"

"I hate them. I HATE them all!" Lily snarled.

"No, not that. I already know _that_. What—"

"Those arrogant berks. Always getting _me_ in trouble."

"—happened? Lily, James was just being—"

"And do they apologize? Nooo, they just look all innocent with those little—"

"—a little protective. You know how he is."

"beady eyes, ready to strike, but nobody sees how _evil_ they are. They're like bunnies."

"James has been after you since fourth year."

"So sickeningly cute but ready to strike at any moment. Merlin, I just want to—"

"It's natural that he'd get a little jealous and—"

"—wring his pasty white neck. Bastard. Alice, what should I do?"

"—exact revenge."

"Brilliant, Alice! We'll fight fire with fire!" Lily said, a scheming look in her eyes.

"Wait, what?"

"Oh, we'll get them, won't we? Oh yes, we'll pay back the Marauders for every single last prank. I'll call it…we need a secret name…. Code Red! No, that's stupid. Er, Operation SPLAT! Yes, Operation Splat!"

"Lily," Alice said, "I think you misheard me. I meant that James—"

"Had it coming for a long time," Lily finished. "I know. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you earlier Alice. You give such good advice. It's like we can read each other's thoughts."

* * *

That night, the Gryffindor quidditch team headed back to the locker room after a hard practice, shouldering their battered brooms. James, in his second year as captain, eyed his team's brooms with disgust. He and Sirius had decided that, in order to secure their fourth consecutive championship, they needed to have team brooms. After great deliberation and concentration that would have stunned Remus, they had decided on Silver Arrows as the standard broom for the team, though they would get the Seeker a Nimbus. 

"Padfoot, mate, this is getting ridiculous. We still don't have the brooms, and our first game is coming up," James said, changing out of his quidditch robes.

"No shit. But it's impossible to speed up the order," Sirius said. Dumping off sweaty (and quite possibly putrefying) robes in laundry chute in the locker room, James and Sirius headed up to their common room.

"Impossible? But nothing is impossible for the Marauders! Tum, ta, ta, TUM!" James said.

"Mate, you gotta stop doing that."

"It's time for a Marauder Operation!" James continued, completely oblivious. "To get our Quidditch brooms. Code Name: Blackhawk."

"BUT PRONGS! It's my turn to name our operation," Sirius said.

"You always choose crappy names," James said.

"Bollucks. Mine are brilliant."

"Are not."

"Are too.

"Are not."

"Fine. What's your brilliant name?"

"Operation," began Sirius dramatically, "Splat."

"Splat," James said. "Operation. Splat."

"Yup! Like it?" They entered the common room, deserted except for Remus reading a book in front of the fire.

"No, I don't, you pillock! That is the most moronic name for an operation I've ever heard! No idiot would choose that."

"Well, _I_ like it."

"Well, _I _don't."

"Like what?" James and Sirius turned to Remus and began talking at the same time. After giving them a deer-in-headlights-stare, Remus asked, "You're launching a _Marauder Operation_ over some sticks!"

"They're not sticks, Moony! Brooms! Racing brooms," James practically yelled, feeling personally assaulted.

"Alright, alright," Moony said in his most pacifying tone. "You just can't…I dunno…rush in there and prank the CEO of Silver Arrows Co."

Silence.

"Why not?" asked Sirius.

"Because…because….because it's just not right. You don't do that," Remus tried to explain. "You, er, write letters and make protests and stuff. Boycotting. You know."

"Writing letters. You want Operation Splat to consist of writing letters, Moony," Sirius said.

"Yes. Er. Yes, exactly," said Remus emphatically.

"Okay…" James said hesitantly. "Will you help us?"

* * *

Dear Imbeciles: 

We have no doubt that this masterful composition will be lost amidst the torrents of other owls that you are undoubtedly striving to ignore. Rest assured, however, had this letter been delivered in person, it would have been accompanied by a myriad of nasty hexes, curses, and jinxes to shrink your assets (and I'm not referring to the company assets). I will try not to occupy too much of your valuable time as you are undoubtedly busy throwing wads of paper in trash cans or staring blankly at your desk (that is, given the dubious assumption that it is not too taxing on your three brain cells to do nothing and breathe simultaneously).

I and my associate ordered Silver Arrows on August 25. Two months later, Silver Arrows Co. lived up to its motto ("Incompetent, Irresponsible, and Inebriated"), and the brooms were not delivered though you guarantee delivery by owl within one week. In case you bed-wetting troglodytes slaving away (can't forget those oh-so-important paper-wad-throwing contests) in caves lost track of time (understandable in the medieval era before the existence of the clock), the quidditch season begins November 15. If life were fair, you would have died at birth.

You did, however, recently send us a pair of used racing brooms (Lightflash 11-s). I use the term "racing broom" in the loosest sense possible, as the Lightflash 11-s hardly qualifies as a nice stick, much less a top-of-the-line racing broom. I must admit, your stupidity has reached monolithic proportions I previous thought only possible by amoebas.

When I sent back the brooms (graciously accompanied by a scrupulously written—or shouted, I suppose—Howler), you demonstrated unparalleled incompetence and sent bank an owl guaranteeing delivery on Saturday, September 23, between 6 a.m. and 8 p.m. Perhaps I presumed too much, but I assumed that you were referring to September 23, 1971, not September 23, 1986. I, and my associates Messrs. Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew, squandered an entire day sitting on our arses in the Owlery Tower rather than profiting of the weekend by doing something productive (a concept, I am sure, that you are either too lazy to engage in, or, as I suspect, completely unaware of). During those 14 hours, we narrowly missed being crushed by a falling beam, were attacked by overly aggressive barn owls, and were nearly blinded by the morning post.

I, a long time patron of your company, am slightly saddened (but now mostly gleeful) to be forced to sever all ties with Silver Arrows Co to become loyal customers of the Nimbus broomstick line. Once I graduate from Hogwarts, I fully intend to use my influence as the heir to the considerable Potter fortune to take over your company and sell it to a pig farmer in Albania.

I look forward to your imminent death,

James Potter, Captain of Gryffindor Quidditch Team

Sirius Black, Assistant Captain

* * *

_Whispered conversation at 3 a.m. in Gryffindor Common Room between Padfoot, Prongs, and Moony_

"You didn't, did you?"

"Do what?"

"Send the letter."

"Of course we didn't."

"Have you no faith in us, Moony?"

"Oh thank Merlin. I can't believe I helped you with that."

"We tied it to a rock and chucked it though their window about an hour ago."

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for reading! Next chapter within next two weeks, probably sooner. Sorry to those of you to whom I said this would be up last weekend. I got a bit bogged down with homework. But I promise to update at least once every two weeks. Thanks all. _


End file.
